


sink your teeth in

by cazzy



Series: the moon, let it guide you [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Vague descriptions of violence, Vampire Matt, Werewolf Shiro, more like medium burn, most of voltron belongs to shiro's pack, not quite slow burn, vampires and werewolves and magic oh my
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/cazzy
Summary: “This is the third body thisweek,Shiro,” a tinny voice says from the other end of his phone. “And whoever’s doing this isn’t even trying to be clever. There are bitemarks everywhere.”Shiro sighs. He feels too old to deal with this, even though it’s pretty much written into his job description. “I know. Thanks for running clean-up, Lance.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You ever get so distracted while writing one paranormal AU that you end up creating an entirely new one? No? Just me? 
> 
> Anyway I have this mostly planned out! Chapter 7 of Born Asleep is still in the works, but sometimes you just have to itch that cliche vampire/werewolf AU scratch...

He’s _cold._

It’s the one thing he’s capable of thinking, right now — it’s nearly impossible to consider anything otherwise, with how hard his entire body is shivering. His fingers feel numb, exposed to the frigid, unforgiving air as they are, and it’s difficult to force the joints into movement.  The darkness feels oppressive and consuming around him, thick fog isolating him from anything or anyone that could possibly help.

Worse than the cold chilling him to the bone is the deep-seated gnawing of hunger deep in his stomach. It’s consuming him from the inside, drawing any attempt at thought into its dark, empty pit, and he lets out a shrill, pathetic whine to try and alleviate the pain.

There’s no response to his cry, though, no respite from the freezing cold settling in alongside the miserable yearning of hunger. He bites back another sob, trying to force his eyes to focus long enough to try and recognize his surroundings, but it’s no use. He’s too hungry to concentrate, too deprived of the essentials to even consider anything outside of the immediate need to consume sustenance. He curls into himself, frigid palms pressing uselessly against the curve of his abdomen, and wonders if this is how he’ll die.

There’s a sudden noise, loud and joyous, from up ahead, and the craving in his gut fairly sings in response to it.

_Food._

 

* * *

 

“This is the third body this _week,_ Shiro,” a tinny voice says from the other end of his phone. “And whoever’s doing this isn’t even trying to be clever. There are bitemarks everywhere.”

Shiro sighs. He feels too old to deal with this, even though it’s pretty much written into his job description. “I know. Thanks for running clean-up, Lance.”

Three human deaths in such a short amount of time is a veritable recipe for disaster: it means that someone’s desperate, and cornered, terrified animals tend to be some of the most dangerous. It wouldn’t typically be a problem — he’s held dominion over his territory for long enough that blips on the radar are far and few between, and usually resolved almost instantaneously, except…

He scowls down at his bandaged arm. One political misstep and he’s dealing with the stupidest curse he’s had to deal with in years. Shay says it’ll heal, and as the only one in their pack with a medical degree, he’s inclined to believe her, but it’s still a pain in the ass. Witches are almost _never_ worth the trouble, and it’s a mistake he won’t make again in the future.

Lance hums an affirmative over the line before hanging up, and Shiro huffs again unhappily. There’s a probably-rabid vampire on the loose in Altea, and he’s basically reduced to puppy patrol for the next three weeks.

It’s not exactly the best place to be, right now.

He lets his eyes slip closed, revelling in the silence for the briefest of moments before it melts away and fills with the familiar threads that hover, ever-present, in the periphery of his consciousness.

It’s impossible to truly be alone when you’re alpha of a wolf pack, although he’s hardly complaining. There’s something positively fulfilling about never feeling complete solitude — humans are social creatures, constantly yearning for the connection to others of their kind that assures them and brings them emotional satisfaction. Isolation is dangerous, and Shiro's had enough of it to last multiple lifetimes. He craves the closeness that his pack provides, thrives on the connection they share.

Wolves are much the same.

Lance’s distaste as he disposes of the body hums across their connection, but it’s a much-preferred feeling to experience than the alternatives. For some, the temptation of flesh is almost too much to resist, especially something so newly deceased, and Shiro’s just grateful that his youngest wolf is far too disgusted with dead bodies to even consider eating them. Other packs he’s come across haven’t been so lucky.

The other threads convey nothing urgent: Hunk hums contentedness as he settles in for a mid-day nap, and Shay must be with him because they seem too emotionally connected to be apart. There’s a tentative questioning probe that comes from Keith’s end when he notices Shiro observing them, and in response he sends calm reassurance down their bond — it’s not out of the ordinary for him to check up on them, especially not when danger’s apparently waltzed into their city. 

The safety of his pack is Shiro’s first and foremost concern, but acting as Altea’s Enforcer means he has a duty to the entirety of the city, as well.

He has to find the vampire and destroy it.

 

* * *

 

When Matt rouses into consciousness next, he feels marginally better. All he can truly remember is the gnawing ache of hunger deep in his belly, but the feeling now is but a distant echo. He feels satiated, currently, and warmed by the heavy blanket sprawled atop him. There’s still an odd feeling, like he isn’t sitting quite right in his own skin, but it doesn’t appear to be anything urgent. It’s easily ignorable in favor of stretching out and enjoying the satisfying pop of his spine.

As he truly starts to wake up, he realizes that he’s not entirely sure where he is — crashing on a friend’s couch, maybe? Idly, he reaches around for his glasses, but no wire frame meets his fingers. Matt frowns, because it’s odd they aren’t within arm’s distance…

He succumbs to the urge to finally open his eyes, and is startled to _see._ His vision is blurry at best without the aid of his glasses, but right now — it’s perfect, and pressing fingers against his face reveals that he definitely isn’t already wearing them.

What the hell?

There’s no plausible way Matt suddenly gained 20/20 vision overnight, especially without his knowledge.

As comfortable as he is, the situation is weirding him out enough that he feels the need to find some concrete answers. He pushes the blanket off of himself, looking around and confirming that his surroundings are entirely unfamiliar.

It’s an apartment, furnished and well-lived in, if the empty glasses riddling countertops and the various paintings and photos framed on the walls are any indication. The space isn’t huge, but it’s comfortable. It’s also definitely not his, which begs the question: whose is it?

Matt’s clothes are stiff against his skin, almost like they were soaked with something and dried clinging to his body in odd ways, and he’s shocked into stillness when he looks down.

It’s blood — there’s blood everywhere.

Instinctively, his hands fly underneath the shirt, trying to detect a wound underneath the bloodstained fabric. Was he attacked? Did someone bring him here after finding him, bleeding out somewhere on the sidewalk? He doesn’t feel any pain, though, and he’s pretty sure he would’ve recalled getting injured badly enough for these amounts of blood —

He’s not hurt, he confirms. His hands have come across nothing but smooth skin. But that means the blood’s not his, that —

Matt scrambles backward, trying to run away — from what? _himself?_ — and nearly trips over a bag that’s been dropped haphazardly in the middle of the walkway, and it’s then that he sees it.

Just behind the couch lies a woman, her face frozen in a mask of terror. There’s an awful gash tearing open the line of her throat, and — Matt's a fucking  _scientist._ He's made a career of examining evidence and drawing conclusions based on what he can observe, and as he stares down at the body, he's filled with a chilling sense of certainty.

He's the one who killed her.

“This is fine,” he says aloud, hysteria bubbling up in his chest like a river overflowing. “You’re just… covered in blood, standing over the body of a person you k-killed. Just another day in the life.”

He sucks in a loud, desperate breath, trying to dispel the truth the's spoken into the room — oh, fuck, the crime scene, the place where he fucking murdered someone — but it does nothing.

There are no other words for it: this is a fucking nightmare.

This would usually be about the time where Matt’s heart would kick into overdrive and he’d be crippled by an anxiety attack, except... that definitely isn’t happening right now. He can’t even _feel_ his heartbeat, which is insane because he’s spent most of his life trying to ignore the rapid _thud-thud_ of blood pounding in his head whenever he finds himself in any situation that causes his anxiety to spike. Matt’s drawing in ragged breaths, but the worst part is — they don’t even feel _necessary._

It’s cognitive dissonance at its zenith: his mind panics while his body relays none of that tension. He’s truly starting to freak out, now, and so naturally that’s when all of his memories come back full-force.

 

* * *

 

Shiro should’ve known from the start that the investigation wouldn’t go easily.

“I’m going with you,” Keith insists for the umpteenth time. There’s a petulant undertone to his voice that Shiro’s having a hard time ignoring, but he knows he can’t bring it up without Keith shutting down as a result.

“It’s just reconnaissance,” Shiro responds. “You have a job, you can’t just skip out to walk around with me on a completely riskless task.”

“There’s a vampire killing in our city and you want me to go to _work?”_

“Hey, now,” he starts, and it’s a challenge to suppress the grin twitching at his lips. “Your boss might _need_ you. Your job is way more important than babysitting me.”

Keith stares flatly at him. “I work at a gas station convenience store.”

Mission: Do Not Smile Or Laugh is a complete failure. “What if someone desperately needs you to put twenty dollars on pump number four? Or you manage to give out a winning lottery ticket and your customer thinks you're  _so_ good at customer service that they split the prize money with you—”

Instead of listening to Shiro's  _very_ valid reasons for him to not skip out on his shift, Keith chooses to walk away in the direction of Shiro’s truck. He gets inside and slams the door, punctuating the point.

“Fine,” he mutters, climbing into the driver’s seat alongside his packmate, who clearly does not value his authority. “I’m just going down to the station to see Kollivan and grab some of the case files. It’s nothing interesting, I promise.”

“Going downtown is a risk — that’s where all of the attacks are happening,” Keith points out.

“It’s ten in the morning. If they’re going to try and attack me now, they’ll be doing me a favor by killing themselves.”

_“Shiro.”_

Keith gets so _weird_ about Shiro’s safety — like he hasn’t been a wolf for a decade longer, or their alpha for half as long. He knows it comes from a place of worry, especially considering Keith’s own background, but it feels a little overbearing, at times. He’s perfectly capable of handling himself, even if he isn’t able to shift at the moment.

The drive goes by quickly, just a handful of minutes down the winding road that leads away from Shiro’s home (and homebase to most of his wolves) in the foothills. Kollivan’s on a smoke break outside the precinct, and he narrows his eyes at them as they approach the station.

“You pressing charges for that?” he asks once they've parked, pointing his cigarette toward Shiro’s arm.

“Not worth the trouble.” And it really isn’t; the witches who initiated the curse aren’t anywhere near Kollivan’s jurisdiction anymore, and Shiro’s fairly confident they managed to scare the coven into behaving for a _long_ time. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

They end up in his squad car, police radio chattering in the background. Kollivan wastes no time in withdrawing a folder from beneath his jacket and handing it over.

“Newest body — her name’s Florona Baku. We found her yesterday after she failed to show up for work five days straight and sent some officers to do a welfare check.”

The pictures are brutal. Typical victims of vampire attacks are eerie to look at, with how pale their victims are. A clever bloodsucker would’ve concealed their bite, or would have been smart enough to not leave a body behind in the first place.

Florona looks like she was attacked by some kind of animal with claws. There’s too much visible blood, to start, and several bitemarks. Her throat looks like it’s nearly been ripped out, which is unheard of from lucid vampires; wasting blood is frowned upon in the circles that consume it. The tell-tale smears and pools around her body speak of desperation. A vamp this hungry is either incredibly young and inexperienced, or a feral. Shiro frowns — if it’s a feral, then they have a bigger problem on their hands, because starved biters are typically doing the bidding of someone older than them, but ferals are just _rabid._ There’s no reasoning with an animal whose only prerogative is to consume.

Keith grimaces from the backseat of the squad car, looking away from the graphic photos as Shiro flips through them. “This is just sloppy. Vamp must be starving to get this bad. Were there any liftable prints?”

It’s a good question — in some of the photos, there are several smeared handprints framing the woman’s body. It’s the first scene that’s taken place in someone’s home, where evidence can be isolated as either Florona’s or her attacker’s.

“No matches from our database,” Kollivan responds. “But this is sloppy enough that you should’ve caught them by now either way.” It’s not a direct jab at them, but Shiro feels the pressure all the same. He’s a blunt officer, more concerned with taking care of things efficiently than he is with building interpersonal relationships, but Shiro gets it. Five bodies in under two weeks _is_ a problem that needs stopping.

Shiro accepts the manila folder with a nod. “Thanks.”

Kollivan doesn’t have much for them, but it’s a start.

 

* * *

 

The worst part of this all is — Matt remembers _everything._

And, oh, god, there’s so much blood on his hands.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s body aches with the need to shift. He knows he’s restless, and his temper’s grown thin even with his pack, which simply isn’t acceptable. Shiro’s taken to isolating himself, which has been mostly successful due to the soul connection he shares with his wolves and the persistence of Lance bugging him so often that it's impossible to effectively avoid them.

At least he can count the days down.

(“You’ll be fine on the full moon,” Shay assures him. “Pack and lunar magic should be strong enough to remove all traces of the curse.”

The marks are hideous, dark runes burned into his flesh that signal pain and suffering. Fortunately, the agonizing pain had mostly faded after the first few days, but the essence of the curse remained: shifting before he had the magic to overpower it could damage their entire pack irreparably.

“I hope this never happens again,” he huffs.

“Next time, don’t piss off an entire coven?” she suggests, pulling a bandage out from her med kit and unravelling it to wrap his arm anew.

Shiro scowls. “I had to! They swore an oath to respect our traditions and then broke it to try and summon a demon!”

Shay laughs. “You’re preaching to the choir, Shiro. They absolutely deserved to be exiled, but it’s a bummer they managed to curse you on their way out. Must've grabbed some puppy fur.”)

The full moon is still a week away, though, and Shiro’s pretty sure he’s going to die from frustration before it rises.

Distraction seems to be the best course of action, and it’s almost convenient that there’s a vampire killing humans in his territory, because it manages to divert his attention.

He’s on investigation duty when a sudden shiver runs through him, an odd mixture of excitement and trepidation, and he’s experienced enough to know when members of his pack are preparing to shift. The cocktail of emotion is a familiar one; no one looks forward to the pain of bones shifting and grinding and _changing,_ but the end justifies the means every time, without a doubt.

It’s only two of them, right now — Lance and Keith. Lance is still too young to shift safely on his own, so it’s good he’s with someone, even if he had to bribe Keith into being his guardian for the moment. (Although — judging by how Keith acts, sometimes, Shiro’s starting to wonder if he’s not secretly thrilled with how much Lance happened to latch onto the wolf that turned him.)

He can’t help the smile that breaks out as the vicarious thrill of running shoots through him. It’s not the same, won’t ever truly compare to shifting himself and running through the woods with the closest thing to family he’s got, but it’s still heady like a shot of whiskey burning its way down his throat, satisfying as it warms him to the core.

Through their bond, exhilaration from both wolves thrums back to him.

Shiro misses it so goddamn _badly._ Being unable to shift is its own form of torture. He feels perpetually restless, unable to settle into the state of relaxation that comes after a good run through the woods. His wolf is a part of him, entwined with the human part so deeply that the two are almost inseparable, now, but he’s been neglecting the beast. Logically, he knows it’s for a good reason, but the animal within him keens unhappily, yearning to be released.

The apartment from the file Kollivan had handed him — the most recent murder, as far as they know — is quiet as he enters, caution tape still marking the location as an active crime scene. Immediately, he’s drawn to the biggest piece of furniture in the room: a cozy-looking couch that reeks of the sharp smell of vampire. He lowers his guard, letting the joy Keith and Lance are currently feeling melt away so he can focus on picking up any sort of relevant detail that will give him a hint as to where to look next.

It’s a dumb mistake that nearly gets him killed.

He’s grown complacent, assuming that he’s the only one investigating the rabid vampire that’s killing within his territory. Nobody’s challenged his dominance as pack alpha in years, and even the supernatural community of Altea typically defers to him.

The body of the woman is long gone — Kollivan had made sure the woman’s case had fallen under his control, like he always does when there's supernatural meddling involved — but it’s still something that’s been reported on the news, and Shiro’s crouching beside the couch, trying to detect the vampire’s scent, when he realizes he’s not alone.

“Don’t move.”

The voice comes from behind him, coupled with the press of a blade against the sensitive skin of his throat. It’s silver, too, judging by the way his hackles raise as it meets his flesh, and Shiro winces.

“You probably don’t want to do that,” he manages. He’s fairly sure whoever's threatening him couldn’t _actually_ kill him — she smells of magic, but she’s still human, and although be unable to shift at the moment, he’s still faster than a mundane.  It would take but a second to turn the weapon on her. “I’m not your enemy.” 

“Maybe not, but you’re in my way,” the voice responds, and she sounds young. There's no hesitation in her voice, which means she's serious about the threat. The silver’s starting to burn against his skin, and Shiro raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Let’s talk about it?” He waves his bandaged arm in the air like a white flag. “I’m already incapacitated and can’t hurt you.” He hopes she doesn’t do anything rash. He doesn't  _really_ want to hurt her, even if she's technically trespassing on more than one count. He doesn't like causing undue harm, either, and it'd be a shame to injure her if she didn't truly deserve it. Hopefully his injury makes her a little more hospitable.

After a heartbeat, the pressure of the blade gives, and Shiro turns to inspect his would-be assailant. She’s tiny, with curled brown hair peeking out from beneath a black beanie. The rest of her clothing matches: dark and form-fitting, with a bag slung over her shoulder that looks too heavy to be carrying anything but anti-supernatural weaponry.

“I’m Shiro,” he says. His eyes drop to the silver dagger clenched in her hand, and the backpack. “Are you a hunter? I haven’t seen you around here before.” He declines to mention the fact that _here_ means a bit more than this dead woman’s apartment: professionals would’ve come to him, first, before prowling about _his_ territory. She looks too young and disinterested to fully comprehend supe politics, though.

“In a way. My name is Pidge,” she says, swiping the back of her arm across her forehead. The dagger glints in the dimness of the apartment. “I’m hunting down the vampires who killed my brother.”  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to kill you,” the man had said, but Matt doesn’t understand why. Even if he’s committed no recent crimes, he has a startling body count under his belt. It’s what he’d do, if he was in a position to be assassinating serial killers.
> 
>  _Is that even the proper nomenclature?_ he wonders. They weren’t premeditated murders, but Matt’s fairly sure that once you’ve killed more than three times, you’re not just any old type of murderer.
> 
> Any way he looks at it, he should be properly dead. Not… housed in some stranger’s cellar, which looks oddly like a mixture between a living room and a jail cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title for this chapter: Everyone Has Hurt Feelings 
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get out! Writer's block is a bitch. Anyway, there might be some unanswered questions in this chapter — at some point after finishing this fic, I have a Klance prequel in the works that will explain a lot of them. But for now... Shatt.

Keith’s first thought as Shiro approaches their meeting spot on the edge of the forest is that their pack alpha smells like an unfamiliar human. This isn’t all-together surprising, given his status as their city’s Enforcer and his resulting responsibilities with a huge majority of the city’s community, but what _is_ surprising is how much the scent clings to him. Merely brushing up against someone wouldn’t cause something like this — they must’ve been much closer.

He’s apparently not the only one who smells it, either.

“Ooh, did someone get lucky?” Lance calls out, voice overloud and laced with what he probably thinks is an effectively teasing tone. “Thanks for telling us about your love life, Shiro.”

Shiro stops in front of them, and he looks tired. In the dimness of dusk, it’d normally be difficult to parse many details out of his appearance, but it’s the night of the full moon, and Keith’s senses are sharpened by the magic humming in the air. His eyes catch on the redness high on Shiro’s neck.

This is _exactly_ why he’d been against Shiro investigating the feral vamp in their territory on his own. He’d only been gone for a few hours, and yet there’s a silver burn against his throat intermixed with the faint aura of magic surrounding him. Whatever’s going on in Altea is _dangerous,_ and it’s infuriating that their alpha isn’t taking it seriously enough.

He hardly realizes he’s growling under his breath until a heavy weight settles on top of his shoulders — Lance, draping an arm around him. Keith tries not to flinch at the sudden contact; Lance always manages to knock him off-kilter.

“Oh, c’mon,” Lance says from beside him. “I know you’re jealous that Shiro’s getting laid, but I’m sure you’ll find someone to love you… eventually. If you ever manage to stop scowling and making noises like an angry animal.”

There’s something sour underlying his tone that Keith can’t quite identify, but he’s too distracted by the warm press of Lance’s body against his and the fact that Shiro might be injured to do much but scoff and try to wiggle himself free from the other wolf.

“Lance,” Shiro says sharply, and Keith can feel his arm tense from where it’s resting over his shoulders. Nobody’s immune to the serious tone of their alpha. “Not tonight, alright? Yes, there’s a girl, but she’s just an unlicensed hunter. She’s back at the house, and can wait to be dealt with until I don’t feel like I’m about to explode out of my skin.”

 _“Finally,_ somebody gets me,” Hunk says as he makes his way down the dirt path, fingers entwined with Shay’s. They’re the last of the pack to arrive, and their arrival is enough distraction for Keith to finally slip free from under Lance’s arm. He doesn’t need to be thinking about why their youngest wolf always manages to get under his skin right now — not when they’re about to shift, and bare their souls to a lunar magic-infused bond.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow?” Keith asks, locking eyes with Shiro to confirm that whatever happened isn’t going to be dropped just because they’re about seven minutes away from an involuntary shift.

Shiro nods. “Let’s just focus on tonight, okay?”

“I’ve been waiting to shift for _ages,_ ” Hunk groans, tugging his shirt off, and Shay lets out a soft laugh at his eagerness.

“You’re not the only one,” she says playfully, eyeing Shiro’s arm. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve never been more excited by a full moon,” Shiro admits as he unwinds the bandages covering the runes on his arm. “If tonight’s not enough to nullify the magic, I’m going to be tempted to chop the whole thing off.”

“Could you imagine if we got you a prosthetic for your wolf form?” Lance asks, sounding far too excited about the hypothetical situation. “And it was all metal! You’d be the coolest-looking wolf ever!”

“You’re going to be fine,” Keith mutters, shooting a glare at Lance.

Alphas always shift first during a full moon, and tonight’s no different. It’s almost a blessing, because it means Shay’s cognizant enough to monitor Shiro’s shift as he changes into a wolf for the first time since their run-in with Haggar’s coven. It goes by quickly enough, their bond tinged by the weary pain that always comes with transforming, before Shiro’s standing tall, his fur sleek and thick like it always is. He seems perfectly fine, unhindered by the injury that’s been haunting him for the past few weeks.

Keith barely has time to note that there’s not a trace of magic left behind by the witches who’d cursed Shiro before his own shift begins, involuntary shivers wracking his body as his bones start to shift and fur shudders atop his skin. There’s a brief moment where the pain feels too overwhelming to handle, as multiple members of their pack shift and the agony amplifies itself along the thrumming length of their shared bond, but it does eventually pass, and Keith manages to gasp out a ragged breath as he stands, shakily, on four legs.

Once the pain dissipates entirely, all that’s left is the eagerness that comes with a fresh shift. Keith's thoughts clear, focused entirely on the thrill of being a wolf. He feels powerful, energy coiled tightly into his muscles, and Shiro must feel the same, because he lets out a loud yip before tearing off into the dense forest, the rest of them hot on his heels.

 

* * *

Matt sits in front of the hotel’s bathroom mirror and considers.

For the second time in as many years, his entire worldview has shifted, tilted so far on its axis away from everything he’s ever known that he’s not sure what to think. He stares at himself, tawny eyes locked with his reflection’s, and swallows thickly.

The disappearance of his parents had been a shock, riddled with grief and then the determination to find out the truth of what had happened, but it wasn’t until Pidge and he had stumbled upon the existence of magic that his thoughts had been forced to _change._ Their quest for answers had been a brutal one, filled with violence and knowledge the two of them had only dreamed of obtaining, but it had come to a screeching halt with Matt’s death. Or… undeath? He’s unsure of the correct classification of his current existence, and it's not like he has anyone to ask.

His heart hurts for his sister — it may not beat any longer, but she’d been on a vengeful warpath from the day their parents had vanished, and he knows with complete certainty that her assuming he’s dead and gone is better than her ever finding out about what he’s actually become.

Matt can vividly recall his last moments, and he hopes his sister never learns about what he’d gone through.

In the meantime, as he figures out what exactly to do now and how to continue the search for his family, there’s no dearth of experiments for Matt to run on himself, and starting with one of the most common superstitions surrounding the supernatural has been interesting. Matt taps on the mirror, watching his clearly visible reflection copy the action. It confirms that vampires are _definitely_ visible in mirrors; whether it’s a deliberation on if he has a soul or not, Matt can write this one off as debunked.

He lets out a quiet rueful laugh, knowing that this experimentation is really just stalling.

The real trouble begins now, with this second worldview-altering event. If unwittingly discovering that supernatural creatures walk among human beings was his Big Bang, then this is like a comet destroying the dinosaurs: Matthew Holt is a vampire.

And how’s he supposed to cope with that?

He’s killed several people. He’s _become_ what Pidge and he had suspected to be the culprits of their parents’ disappearance, and if he wants to move forward, then he has to first come to terms with who he is now and what he’s done.

Throat uncomfortably tight, Matt turns away from the mirror. He doesn’t even know how Pidge is doing, can only hope that she’s alright. Hope that he’d managed to lead away the coven of vampires that had been stalking them long enough for her to escape safely. Hope that the puddle of his blood that Pidge had probably — no, almost certainly, she’s far too stubborn and intelligent to have missed it — found had scared her off of their search.

He hopes to never see her again, and hopes that what he’s going to do now will redeem him. He’s smart, and can figure out a way to feed without killing anyone else. He doesn’t particularly want to die (again), even if that’s probably what he deserves, but… his parents may still be out there. Matt can’t give up on that, even if he’s become a monster.

* * *

“This is incredible,” Pidge gasps, reaching a tentative hand forward to brush against Keith’s snout. “Is he — is he aware? Or are there only animal instincts?”

Keith chuffs in annoyance. It’s not like he can communicate as easily in this form, but it’s still rude for her to imply that he’s been reduced to the most basest of instincts. (That only happens during the full moon, but maybe it’s a smart idea to keep that kind of information away from someone he hardly knows.)

“I think he’s offended you’re talking about him like he’s not here,” Shiro says lightly, flicking at one of Keith’s ears. “We can understand human speech just fine.”

“He’s always like that,” Lance reassures Pidge. He waves an arm in the general direction of Keith’s face. “I didn’t think it was possible for a wolf to scowl, but here we are.”

Lance really _should_ have been expecting Keith’s responding nip to the hand he’s using to gesture at Keith’s bulk, but his yelp of surprised pain is immensely satisfying.

While he whines about the nonexistent injury, Keith turns his attention back to Pidge. She’s positively dwarfed by Keith; even on all fours, his head rises higher into the air than hers, although she seems to think it’s more fascinating than intimidating. She’s currently comparing her own hand size to one of his front paws, and it’s almost… endearing.

He can hear Lance and Shiro murmuring to each other, out of range of Pidge’s human hearing but not a wolf’s.

“She seems to have decent supe knowledge,” Shiro’s saying. “Some of it’s oddly obscure and there are definite gaps, but she’s tenacious. I’d rather have her participate in sanctioned hunts rather than try to go off on her own.”

“I approve,” Lance responds. “Can the pack keep her?”

“She’s not a pet, Lance." Keith snorts at the reprimand, startling Pidge out of her perusal of his claws. "I asked Allura if she’d be alright with issuing her a hunting license, and she seemed receptive. She’ll have to go through all the necessary training, though.” The last words are spoken louder, which means Shiro means for her to hear them.

Pidge sobers immediately, a determined glint in her eyes as she picks up on the threads of conversation. “I understand completely, and appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”

Maybe she’s not so bad.

* * *

Shiro isn’t quite sure what to think.

“It happened around two in the morning,” the security guard is saying. He has only a fraction of the magic his mother does, but he’s still bound by many of the rules that guide the Fae, something that’s biting him in the ass right about now. “Came in dressed completely in black and dumped a package of salt on the ground. Was back out of the building before I was done counting,” and the words are said in a fairly plaintive whine.

A vampire who can not only identify a Fae on the spot, but also craft a nonviolent plan preying on their weakness to steal blood? It’s utterly bewildering.

“And it wasn’t one of our registered?” Shiro asks, already knowing the answer but needing the confirmation anyway.

The Fae frowns. “Couldn’t ‘ave been. All blood bank donations went out for the week yesterday afternoon, and our locals know the schedule. Nobody would’ve snuck in like this, unless they were already doing somethin’ messy, like nursing a newborn.”

Or if they were a newborn themselves.

“Huh.” Shiro puzzles over the facts, sucking his teeth. “I’m glad you’re okay, either way. I’ll send Coran over to do a re-evaluation of our security protocols. Maybe team you up with someone in the future."

“Good idea. I’ve refreshed the wards around the place as a precaution as well, but it’s still odd."

Ferals would’ve never had the forethought to do something like this. Even a cognizant vampire wouldn’t typically consider forming a plan in order to gain access to food, and this situation’s just getting stranger and stranger.

Time for a new approach.

 

* * *

It’s not often that Matt feels entirely out of his league, but this is quickly shaping up to be one of those instances. His intellect is quick and sharp, and he’s survived in many-a-situation because of it, but at this point, it may not be enough.

The sun set about an hour ago, which had been a lesson Matt had learned the hard way — definitely one of those superstitions rooted in truth — and he’s out on the prowl for some sort of food source.

He can’t break into the blood bank so quickly after robbing it just a week prior, and besides he’s unsure if they switched out the guards. Matt’s dealt with some lesser Fae, before, but he’s unprepared now and hasn’t had the chance to scout out whoever’s on duty now. It’d be way too risky.

It doesn’t leave him with many other options, though, which brings him to his current problem.

Being around people is… complicated. He really doesn’t want to slip up again, but walking amongst them is dangerous, especially considering the fact that he ran out of his stolen blood supply a few days back. He has to figure out a sustainable way to get nourishment that doesn’t involve murder or traceable theft, and he can feel himself spiraling into uncertainty.

Desperately, Matt falls back on a tried and true method: research. It’s fortunate that the local library is still open and remains so for another couple of hours, because free access to the internet is exactly what he needs.

He makes his way to the library based on instructions from the hotel’s concierge, pleased to see that it’s fairly empty as he walks in. There’s a librarian looking bored behind a desk, and a few stragglers on some of the public access computers, but there are some empty seats far enough away from all human contact that Matt’s fairly sure he’ll be able to resist any urges.

The city he’s found himself in is still unfamiliar, and a quick Google search informs him that he’s about 50 miles away from where he last remembered investigating their parents’ potential location with Pidge. He barely recalls trekking across the long distance, starving and mad and leaving bodies in his wake, but he supposes it’s a good thing that he’s far removed from the scenes of his crimes.

Time slips away as Matt investigates possible avenues of blood — he hasn’t even tested whether or not animal blood will satisfy his needs, but he can certainly hit up the local butcher before the sun’s risen. He gets a few possible leads, and logs out of the computer feeling more confident about his prospects than when he’d come in.

It isn't until the librarian's doing rounds and informing the library's occupants that they're about to close that Matt stands up to leave. He offers her a thank you, making sure to give her a wide berth, before he steps outside, so caught up in his thoughts and the leads scribbled down onto a piece of paper that he fails to take note of his surroundings. He collides with someone on the street, hard, and a lot happens in the span of a few seconds.

Matt recoils away from the body, fearful that such close contact is going to spark that instinctual response to _kill and consume;_ the stranger he’s bumped into inhales sharply and audibly before growling out an incoherent noise; they both take a step back, and Matt inhales himself, only to be overwhelmed by a scent that can’t be anything but supernatural and _dangerous._

They lock eyes, then, and Matt does the only thing he can — he bolts.

The stranger tears after him, and he’s _fast._ Matt’s at a disadvantage, unfamiliar with the streets as he is, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, he needs to get some distance between them, and then he can find his way back to his shoddy hotel room once he’s in the clear. He doesn’t even entirely understand why he’s running, only that whoever — or _what_ ever — is chasing him is an enemy, someone that’s going to try to end his existence. He runs with desperation overwhelming every movement, every second of his feet pounding against the concrete as he sprints as quickly as he can away from the imminent threat.

It isn’t long before Matt backs himself into a corner. He really hadn’t even considered researching the streets of the city themselves, although that’s clearly been a fatal oversight. He’d let down his guard, and now he’s going to suffer for it. ( _Stupid,_ his mind spits at him.  _You never would've made an idiotic mistake like this if you were still watching out for yourself_ and  _Pidge.)_

The alley he’s run into offers him no respite: he’s backed against a too-high cement wall and the surrounding skyscrapers of the city’s downtown, and his options are limited.

“Back off!” he shouts desperately, grimacing as he realizes his voice is wavering. He hasn’t eaten in a few days and the chase had taken a lot of energy out of him. The best he can hope to do is bluff; pretend he’s stronger than he really is and try to intimidate the man into walking away.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the stranger says, but he’s rummaging through his pockets for something and Matt lets out a warning hiss.

He doesn’t know much about combat, but based on how easily he’d ripped the throat out of a human being, he probably has some heightened senses that he didn’t have when he was a mere human. He’s a cornered animal, right now, and will do whatever it takes to escape this apex predator.

The man seems to find whatever he’s looking for, pulling out something dark and slim. Matt sees a flash of light so bright it almost seems to blind him, and then he sees nothing.

* * *

“I’m not going to kill you,” the man had said, but Matt doesn’t understand why. Even if he’s committed no recent crimes, he has a startling body count under his belt. It’s what he’d do, if he was in a position to be assassinating serial killers.

 _Is that even the proper nomenclature?_ he wonders. They weren’t premeditated murders, but Matt’s fairly sure that once you’ve killed more than three times, you’re not just any old type of murderer.

Any way he looks at it, he should be properly dead. Not… housed in some stranger’s cellar, which looks oddly like a mixture between a living room and a jail cell. He'd woken up within its walls, unharmed and unbound, to a slightly musty and unused-seeming room. There _are_ some medieval-looking chains piled into one corner of the room, but Matt’s doing an excellent job of pretending they aren’t intimidating at all.

He supposes there are worse fates. At least like this, he’s kept away from the temptation of feeding off some poor unsuspecting human, but that’s only a relief of the immediate variety. How is he supposed to eat if he’s stuck down here? Matt can’t imagine the stranger who brought him here is about to haul some dead bodies down into the cellar. He'd looked way too self-righteous to do something like that, especially if he’s running around treating newly-turned vampires like a charity case.

He _is_ curious about whatever weapon the man had used to take him down, though. It didn’t seem to hurt him, only incapacitate him long enough to be brought to this cellar-cum-dungeon, and Matt’s not even sure what kind of supernatural creature the stranger is, but he’s hoping it’s not something that feeds on vampires. Although... it would be some sort of supreme irony for something to feast on a vampire. Based on the almost dog-like smell lingering around the cellar, though, it's not very likely.

It’s definitely a mystery to be solved. Matt’s pretty sure he can last a day or two before hunger pangs have him clawing at the walls in an attempt to escape, but for now he settles for stretching his long legs out on the comfy couch placed in the middle of the cellar, and relaxes.

* * *

The vampire is absolutely captivating.

Shiro doesn’t know how he’s managed to survive this long alone — there’s always the possibility that there’s an Elder hanging around forcing him to do their bidding, but there are no signs that the vampire he’s caught is captivated by thrall or other manipulative magic.

He just seems so… smart. Almost human, if not for the blood-drinking and the aversion to sunlight (and UV rays, he thinks smugly as he toys with the UV-light flashlight he’s kept on his person since the first body was found).

Shiro’s never seen anything like it. He’d been fine with eliminating a feral or a newborn under Elder thrall, but this is… unprecedented. It would feel like a waste to kill a baby with this much untapped potential.

“My name is Shiro,” he offers to the vampire, who’s pretending he isn’t starving for some fresh blood. Shiro makes a note to ask Allura to bring him some of their supply; even if the vampire’s unregistered, they should be able to spare a few pints.

The vampire squints at him. “And?”

“And _what?_ You’re not particularly in a position to ask questions, you know.”

“I’m not really restrained or anything,” the vampire says, waving his shackleless arms around in the air as if to prove the point. “And it's weird for you to introduce yourself to me. I'm your captive, right?"

Shiro feels like he’s dreaming. He’s thrown back to when he’d been back at the blood bank, dizzy with confusion at what kind of rabid vampire would plant a trap for a Fae in order to steal instead of just eliminating everything within its path.

This vampire is something else, that’s for sure.

“Hey,” the vampire drawls, snapping Shiro’s attention back to him. He’s done a complete 180 from the snarling, spitting beast in the back of one of Altea’s gutter alleys. “Important question.”

“Yeah?” Shiro steels himself for the wide plethora of things the newborn may ask. He’s prepared to lie if it’s something too classified for the general population to know, or do whatever it takes to protect his pack, if it comes to that.

“Do you know why I can see myself in mirrors?”

He’s so startled by the out-of-place question that he actually answers it. “It’s an outdated superstition? I mean, mirrors used to be backed by silver, which are _definitely_ fatal to most supernatural species. But nowadays mirrors tend to be made of aluminum, which is a pretty harmless metal.”

The vampire looks thoughtful. “Huh, not sure why I didn’t connect those dots. You’re alright, wolf-man.”

“My name’s—”

“Shiro, yeah, I got it. What I don’t get is why I’m here.”

Shiro narrows his eyes, unused to being sassed by citizens who _should_ respect him as Altea’s Enforcer. He expects it from his pack members, but not strangers. “You’ve killed at least four people in my city.”

“Yeah,” the vampire says. “So just… kill me and get it over with. Unless you brought me here to torture me? I promise I don’t know anything. I’m pretty sure I’ve only been a vampire for like, two months, and you're the first werewolf I've ever met, so that’d be a dead end.”

“I’m not—" Shiro says immediately, recoiling. “I’m not about to _torture_ you, that’d be inhumane.”

God, even if he _had_ killed the vampire, he would have done it quickly and mercifully. He’s not some sort of monster, even if Keith would insist it’s what subhuman vampires deserved.

“What’s your name?” he asks, trying to redirect the conversation. Shiro’s not entirely sure himself why he brought the vampire back to his home, only that it had felt so inherently wrong to destroy a vampire that had been waltzing out of a public library and looking damn proud of himself for doing _research—_

The vampire hesitates for the briefest of moments, but Shiro doesn't miss it. “Matt,” he says finally.

Everything falls into place suddenly, and Shiro doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before. He’s heard the name before, and paired with those amber eyes that had seemed so familiar, it all makes sense. Pidge tends to keep her hair pulled back and out of the way, but the likeness is almost uncanny, now that he’s identified the cause. Shiro thinks about the young girl that’s successfully befriended every member of his pack, thinks about the darkness in her eyes that could only be from the trauma of losing every member of her family…

Only, she hasn't. Her brother is only _technically_ dead. And he’s sitting in front of Shiro, right now.

There’s something almost earnest about him. Maybe Matt’s manipulating him right now — and Shiro would do well to remember that he _is_ a ruthless predator and killer — but with the witch’s curse taken care of, Shiro’s confident he could win in a fight between the two of them. He has an inkling, though, that such a thing won’t be necessary, and he takes the risk.

“Your sister came into town about a week ago. She's convinced you were killed.”

Matt’s eyes widen. Shiro watches as the shock sets in, and it's a few moments before Matt manages to re-fit some sort of emotionless mask over his features, but he saw it — the vampire's shaken by this knowledge.

“Don’t tell her,” Matt says, and his voice is quiet now, almost pleading. All playfulness and curiosity has drained out, leaving a solemn impact on his next words. “It’s better if she thinks I’m dead.”

Shiro grimaces as he realizes he's already considering agreeing to Matt's request. This complicates things.

* * *

Keith knows something’s wrong as soon as he steps through the threshold of Shiro's home. His wolf’s hackles raise immediately — it’s been weeks since Kollivan had found the first vampire kill in Altea, and Shiro’s remained fairly tight-lipped on any progress he's made in the investigation. It's a recipe for disaster, and even though Shiro's finally back on full-duty now that the witch business has been taken care of, he doesn't like the way things smell.

It’s too quiet. A million possibilities race through his head: did the vampire find him? Has Shiro been missing for hours without any of their pack detecting it? He quickly clears the house, only the slightest bit relieved to see there’s no blood or evidence of some sort of fight. Shiro’s truck is in the driveway, though, which means he’s either somewhere on the property or out in the woods, and the bond’s shared no indicator of any of their pack shifting recently, which means he’s somewhere nearby.

As Keith canvases the property, he finds himself drawn to the cellar doors inconspicuously located around the back of the house. It’s a room that most of them tend to stay away from, as soaked in fear and pain as it is. It carries with it a lot of Lance’s trauma when he’d first been turned, but Keith can see between the cracks in the door that a light is on.

The closer he gets, the harder it is to ignore the sharp scent of a vampire, though. It explains Shiro’s strange absence and lack of communication these past few days, and Keith’s stomach drops. He’s starting to get the full picture, here, and hopes against all odds that he’s not about to stumble upon what he thinks he is.

He wrenches the cellar doors open, expecting the worst, and is shocked as the smell intensifies. Not just the strange vampire’s, but also Shiro's, which means he's been actively spending time down here. Shiro’s been keeping the fucking vampire in _their_ pack’s failsafe room. Keith connects the dots even before he hurries down the stairs and sees Shiro conversing with the fucking murderous vampire like he’s talked with Lance down here so many times before.

“What the hell is this?” he growls, because now Shiro’s very deliberately stepped in between Keith’s path, blocking his view of the wide-eyed vampire that’s been wreaking havoc for weeks. Fuck, _Lance_ has been the one hiding this creature’s victims, and he’s being tended to by their alpha like — like a friend?

“Calm down,” Shiro says. “He’s safe, you don’t have to be hostile.”

“You’re harboring a murderer!”

“I’m handling it.”

Keith stumbles back half a step. It’s a lot to take in, but he’s shocked by how vehemently Shiro seems to be defending a bloodthirsty vampire. “He doesn’t deserve your mercy.”

“It’s a mercy I gave _you,_ ” Shiro says quietly, and Keith stills completely.

His throat feels dry, pulse pounding uncontrollably just beneath his skin. “You know it’s diff—”

“No, it’s not. I’m the leader of this pack, and you defer to _me_ when it comes to pack-threatening decisions, Keith. Not the other way around.”

The reprimand shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but Keith still recoils like he’s been physically struck. He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “So you’re willing to acknowledge that keeping a fucking — _newborn_ — is pack-threatening, but you still kept it a secret from us? What makes him so special?” _What makes him more important than your_ pack, he wants to say, but the words get caught in his throat, and his eyes burn uncomfortably.

Shiro looks torn. He can probably feel Keith’s betrayal on his end of the bond, which — _good._ This hurts, and Keith feels half-hysteric, trying to shove down his own experiences with the breed of creature Shiro’s currently trying to protect.

“Look,” he starts, softening his voice from the harshness of his previous words. “I think Matt’s—”

“Oh, you’re on a first-name basis with the monster? That’s great—”

“He’s Pidge’s brother,” Shiro continues as though Keith hadn’t interrupted; the words are enough to shock him into silence. “And he’s not feral like we’d originally thought. He regained consciousness and remembers everything, and I’ve been trying to get him onto a regular feeding schedule so he can be registered under our jurisdiction.”

Their relation does complicate things, but there’s no excuse for how Shiro’s been handling everything. He couldn’t have found the vampire more than a handful of days ago, and he already trusts the monster more than his own pack? _Matt,_ or whatever Shiro had called him, has killed at least four humans in Altea; probably more. He’s a huge risk, and Shiro should’ve killed him the moment he found him.

“I hope he’s worth it,” Keith says, and it takes all of his effort to suppress his instincts as he turns his back to one of the only apex predators capable of holding their own against a werewolf. It’s deathly quiet as he walks up the stairs, and he doesn’t bother closing the cellar doors behind him as he leaves.

Staying in this form with his emotions so tangled is out of the question. His wolf’s thoughts are much more simplified, more focused on what’s going on around him than turning inward, and he _needs_ the respite from the turmoil of his current mind. He doesn’t even bother to undress, letting the transformation overtake him as his reforming body tears his clothing into shreds. Almost before he’s shifted entirely, his feet hit the ground, running as far away from this mess as possibly can.

 

* * *

Keith has no idea how long he'd transformed for, and barely has any memory of limping his way to the closest home of his pack — Lance’s. His thoughts are too jumbled to really process the implications of why his shoulders start to relax once he’s crossed the threshold and can smell the way Lance’s scent has saturated his small apartment.

“Hey,” Lance says softly, offering some spare clothes as soon as he’s in the door. They all keep a few pairs of shirts and pants at each other’s houses for instances like this, and it’s a relief to have access to something that smells so familiar. It's a small comfort given the shitty day he's had, but it's better than nothing.

Keith grunts out a thanks and tugs the pants on slowly. Everything hurts, from his muscles aching to his chest tight with inexplicable pain, and it takes significant effort to pull the well-worn shirt over his shoulders.

“Shiro sent the rest of us a message,” Lance says quietly. He’s fidgeting with his phone, shooting uncomfortable glances at its screen as it tumbles between his fingers, and beneath the exhaustion Keith feels sick.

“You can’t agree with his decision.” It’s true that Lance doesn’t quite understand the relationship that Keith and Shiro have, but as often as Keith teases him, he’s not a complete idiot. He’s the newest member of their pack, which is — its own problem, one that Keith’s been trying to deal with for _months,_ but Lance has to understand how much of a betrayal this is.

Lance frowns. “I think he’s trying his best, even if he didn’t ask us about it. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, you know—”

“But he did.” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but all of a sudden it’s _too much._ Keith knows he’s not overreacting, he’s not _crazy_ , this isn’t something that can just happen without consequence. “He prioritized a stranger — no, _two_ — over us, how can you be alright with that? I like Pidge, too, but this goes beyond trying to help a friend out. It's violating our bond!”

Keith knows Pidge is in Lance's apartment, had passed her in the living room when he’d first entered the apartment, and he doesn’t know if she can hear them. For once, he doesn’t care.

“Calm down,” Lance says with a frown. Keith wants to do the complete opposite. “Why don’t we just… drop it for now? I can tell you’re tired. Do you want to take a nap in my room?”

He feels stuck in that in-between where he’s so far beyond exhausted that actually sleeping seems like an impossibility. “No,” he mutters, moving to one of Lance’s cabinets to grab a clean glass. If he slams the cupboard door hard after retrieving one, no one mentions it.

The other wolf sighs, but it’s not like he’s unused to Keith’s behavior. “Alright, well. Pidge and I were watching some dumb action movie, and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“It’s not dumb!” Pidge calls out. “All the explosions are practical effects, and the stunts are really well-done!"

Doing something as mundane as watching a movie after what Keith’s experienced sounds miserable, especially if it means having to be in close proximity to Pidge. Knowing what he knows now, he can't help but resent her for how Shiro's chosen to prioritize. He pauses in the kitchen, considering taking up Lance's offer to try and rest. Even if he can’t actually sleep, maybe the dark and quiet will help him sort out the nauseous tangle of emotions caught in his gut.

Lance brushes against him as he moves toward the living room, startling him out of his thoughts, and the jostling agitates Keith enough that he lets out an almost-involuntary growl.

“ _Somebody’s_ in a bad mood,” Pidge says offhandedly, looking at him over the back of the couch, and on top of everything else, it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“Yeah,” he barks, feeling the tension holding his back ramrod straight finally snap. “You know what? I _am_ in a bad mood.”

There’s a hard squeeze against his forearm. “Hey, we'll talk about it later," Lance says pointedly. "She was just joking.”

Keith wrenches his arm out of Lance’s grasp. “No,” he bites out. “Might as well put us all on the same page, right?”

Pidge frowns, but doesn’t outwardly seem to acknowledge the the threat. The way she’s reacting, with her complete inability to comprehend the way their pack functions or how Shiro chose to try and help _her_ instead of trusting in the people he’s supposed to be in charge of… it’s not _fair._ Keith spent all night as a wolf and still feels a hair’s breadth away from changing back again, overwhelmed and exhausted by everything. He wants her to feel even an ounce of the hurt he does, right now.

“You want to know why you haven’t made any progress in your little vampire hunt?” Keith hisses, and next to him, Lance’s face drains of blood.

“Keith, that’s enough—“

But his anger is an erupting volcano, and the words pour out of him like molten hot lava, burning his throat as he speaks. “It’s because Shiro already found him. He’s been harboring him without telling the pack like he isn’t a _murderer—_ ”

“You know it’s not like that,” Lance pleads, but his words aren’t enough to stop the torrent. Even the unease he’s conveying across their pack bond isn’t _enough,_ will never be—

“What do you mean, he’s _harboring_ him?” Pidge’s voice is small, like she doesn’t quite understand. “Who is he?”

Across their pack bond, Keith can feel Lance’s fear thrumming, kicking his own senses into overgear. It’s a shock to the system like ice cold water drenching him suddenly, and abruptly, the anger drains away. He’s not sure if it’s Shiro’s interference with his mood or the sour taste in the back of his throat at Lance’s crumpled face, but this doesn’t feel like the victory it was supposed to be.

There’s no erasing this conversation, though, not with how pale Pidge already is as she makes the connection.

“The vampire’s your brother.”

* * *

“I’m so hungry,” Matt whines. He’s sprawled out on the cellar’s couch, looking far too comfortable like he belongs there. Shiro’s startled by how… domestic it all looks, as though Matt had slipped beneath his defenses without him realizing. It's just another thing to pile on top of the stress he's under regarding the situation with Keith, and he rubs at his temples as his head starts to ache. 

“You have to build up stamina if you want to survive,” Shiro responds, offering him no quarter. “Controlling your hunger is a necessary evil.”

“Ugh,” he says, but the complaint sounds fairly empty. “Becoming a registered vampire is _annoying._ ”

It’s tricky, weaning a newborn off daily feedings. Too much blood and he’ll never manage to staunch his hunger long enough to control himself around humans; too little and he’ll go into a frenzy, half-starved and rabid. It also doesn’t help that Shiro lacks personal experience with such a thing, but it’s not like he can ask anyone for help. Matt’s wanted by the police, and because it’s technically _Shiro’s_ responsibility to take care of him, it would look bad if he couldn’t handle the situation by himself.

“Not even a little bit?” Matt wheedles, staring not-so-subtly at Shiro’s carotid.

“First of all, I’d snap every bone in your body before you could so much as break my skin,” Shiro says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Second of all, I know you’re essentially a baby, but it’s pretty common knowledge that werewolf blood is poisonous to vamps.”

Matt doesn’t seem fazed by his offhanded threat. “Dunno, smells pretty good from over here.”

He tries to think up a good response — something that will redirect Matt’s attention away from this bizarre, almost-flirting they’re partaking in, when he’s hit by an overwhelming outpour of emotion through his pack bond.

Shiro’s stomach turns, nausea coursing through him as tension sings along their bond, and there’s an almost visceral _crack_ as something seems to… break.

Whatever’s happening with his pack, it can’t be good. The unease that’s settled in the back of his mind since Keith found out about Shiro not destroying Matt seems to have boiled over into something more potent, more _dangerous,_ and he’s got an awful feeling about it all.

“Stay here,” he says sternly. “I’ll be back soon.”

He hopes.


End file.
